In Pieces on the Floor
by TypographicalCartograph
Summary: Mary and Dudley find out that their daughter is a muggleborn witch. A story about the trials of being the muggle parents of a magical child and about trying change enough to keep a family with lies in it's foundation standing. Written post HPatDH, this fic is from Dudley's wife's POV.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: A Birth and Unusual Happenings

"Congratulations-it's a girl!"

Mary leaned forward tiredly, looking for her child. Her daughter. She smiled as the midwife handed the baby to Mary, nestling it in her arms. Even through the drugged up glow of childbirth, Mary felt a slight squeeze on her shoulder. She looked up at the round, rosy face of her husband, who was grinning from ear to ear.

"I'm a papa now, aren't I?" he asked squeezing Mary's shoulder again. Mary reached up and squeezed his hand.

"Yeah," she said, smiling. "Yeah, you are, Dudley."

Mary looked down at her daughter again and called her by name for the first time.

"Happy Birthday, Violet, my love."

Violet opened her eyes. Unlike most newborns, her eyes were not blue, but a bright emerald green that sparkled like dew on a leaf. They crinkled as she yawned and fell asleep in Mary's arms.

It was when Violet was eight months old that Mary first noticed what would eventually be called the strange happenings. It was the late morning and Mary, who already felt at the end of her tether, was washing dishes furiously. Violet was in her high chair, complaining wordlessly about the porridge that was in front of her. Mary heard the loud crash of a breaking bowl.

"Violet!" she moaned in frustration. She swiveled around, preparing herself for the site of a broken bowl and porridge all over the ground. But that wasn't what Mary saw. Yes, the porridge was everywhere, even streaked up the table leg, but the bowl was whole and unbroken on top the high chair. Even more than that, it was spotlessly clean. Violet giggled and clapped her hands at Mary's stunned expression.

_How strange, _thought Mary as she bustled her way to the cupboard to fetch a dustpan and mop.

That night, Mary relayed the event to her husband over dinner.

"It was just so odd," Mary explained, stabbing at her spinach. "I could have sworn I heard that bowl break."

"Maybe you just imagined it," her husband offered causally, reaching for his wine.

"That's what I thought too, at first." Mary ate another bite. "But how come the bowl was so clean? There's no way Violet could have emptied it so thoroughly onto the floor. It's like the bowl fell and broke and was then repaired again somehow. Like magic!"

She said this jokingly but a look of concern seemed to pass behind Dudley's eyes. He swallowed. "Indeed," he murmured and then began an anecdote about a hilariously ignorant customer at work.

That strange incident was almost forgotten, but another bizarre event happened at Violet's first birthday. A relative had bought her a mylar balloon and Violet was enamored with it. She kept pulling on it and hitting it until it came loose from it's knots and floated up to the ceiling, out of her reach. Violet began to cry, so Mary went to fetch a ladder. When she got back, Violet had the balloon back in her hand, laughing and giggling once again. Mary wandered through the party, trying to figure out who had fetched the balloon, but no one took credit.

After that, these events started happening more often. When Mary and Violet were in London for the day, Violet left her stuffed giraffe on the tube. After an hour of searching, Mary turned around to break Violet's heart but, but the giraffe was back in Violet's hands, safe and sound. Or when Violet had somehow gotten past the baby gate and began to topple down the stairs. Mary screamed and rushed forward in a panic to catch her little one only to find that Violet was back at the top of the stairs. Not only that, but she was behind the baby gate, which had somehow been re-latched.

Mary thought she might be going insane.

That is, until there was a knock at the door.

**A/N: A short, introductory chapter. I really want to explore the complicated nature of parenting and how that matter can be complicated by having a child that's, well, different. In the next chapter, I plan to introduce two new characters (esoteric canon characters, to be exact—How I love obscurity! *smiles* Should I give a prize to whoever remembers/looks them up?) as well as some ideas for the post-war wizarding world. Until then, Thank You for reading! :)**

**P.S. Please review! I love feedback! **

**P.P.S Is anyone interested in beta-ing? I think I'm going to need some help proof reading and I'd love to have somebody to bounce ideas off of. It's hard to know if a situation feels natural, especially during conflict (which is coming up!) so having a person who can tell me "That's awkward!" would be lovely!**

**(Disclaimer: I don't have the figures on this, but between Warner Bros., J.K. Rowling, and Bloomsbury, I probably only own about 13.491% of this story)**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Visitors at the Door

Someone was knocking on the front door. Mary opened it, wiping her hands on her apron. On her doorstep stood two people, a man and woman. The man was tall and wiry, with short black hair and thick-rimmed glasses. The woman was shorter, with pale blue eyes and chocolate brown Hair. Their dress was unusual, out of style, as if they hadn't gone shopping in ten years: the man wore a large trench coat and fedora over a pair of khaki shorts and a t-shirt. The woman appeared to be in a pair of jeans and a down jacket, which seemed far too casual for their formal air.

The woman smiled at Mary and spoke. "We are from the Ministry. We have some important information to share with you regarding your daughter. May we come in?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Mary said cautiously. She was suspicious of these people but she didn't think they where dangerous. She opened the door wider.

"Thank you," the woman said warmly. She and the man followed Mary to the living room where Mary gestured to the love seat.

"Sit down, please." As they did so, Violet ran into the room, squealed, and bolted right for Mary's leg. She was still clutching Mary when the man spoke.

"Ah, this must be Violet!" he said leaning forward amiably. Violet nestled herself into Mary's leg even more, her brown, curly hair obscuring her face completely. She had turned two just a few months previous, and had become quiet mobile, like a little rocket shooting her way around the house at top speeds. This shy stillness was rare.

"My name is Owen Cauldwell," the man said, offering a smile. "This is my coworker, Eleanor Branstone. We're very pleased to meet you, Violet."

Violet peeked out from behind her hair, giggled, and then dashed from the room and up the stairs to her playroom. Mary went to the kitchen, ever the host, and brought some tea and biscuits out for her guests. Mary sat down in a chair opposite Mr. Cauldwell and Ms. Branstone.

"So," she said, removing her apron. "What's this all about?"

The visitors looked at each other for a moment, then Ms. Branstone asked, "When will your husband be home?"

"In an hour or so. What's this _about_?" Mary insisted.

"I suppose it would be okay to start now," Mr. Cauldwell suggested. "After all, he already has the basics."

"True." Ms. Branstone concurred. "Lets begin, shall we?" Mr. Cauldwell nodded and they both looked at Mary.

"The world is not as simple as you may have thought, Mrs. Dursely." Mr. Cauldwell began somberly. Mary felt a slight chill sweep through her. She didn't like this.

"Do you remember," said Ms. Branstone lightly, like this was small talk, "the fairytales you were told as a child? The ones about witches and wizards and magic?"

Mary didn't answer.

"Those stories aren't as ridiculous as they sound: there are still witches and wizards living in secret all over the world."

Mary felt the urge to kick these people out of her house. They were _definitely_ crazy.

"I bet you think we're insane, don't you?" said Mr. Cauldwell with a chortle. "Most people do, at first, but this usually convinces them."

At that moment, he drew a stick out from under his coat. It was long, straight, and tapered, with simple carvings. He said some nonsense words and waved it in what looked like a practiced motion. Suddenly, the pictures on the mantelpiece began to move, floating and dancing around each other. Mary was clutching the arms of her chair, frightened beyond belief. _How?_ She thought.

Mr. Cauldwell moved the stick again and all the pictures returned to their places as though they'd never moved at all. He placed the stick in his coat pocket and looked at Mary, smiling.

"There is such a thing as magic," he said. "And the people who practice it, witches and wizards, we have an underground culture, with it's own art, history, politics, legal system, law enforcement, literature, medicine, and customs. We even have our own wars, which are waged in secret from the muggle world."

"Muggle?" said Mary feebly. It was the first thing she'd been able to say this in this bizarre and one-sided conversation.

"A non-magical person," inputted Ms. Branstone, giving Mary a sympathetic look.

"The point is," continued Mr. Cauldwell, redirecting the conversation. "While you and your husband may be muggles, your daughter is not. She has magic."

There was a pause.

"No, no, that can't be right." Mary laughed nervously at the absurdity of the situation. "It's impossible; never mind that magic _can't_ be real, she's-she's—"

"Has anything strange happened?" Ms. Branstone interjected. "Anything that seemed odd or impossible? Anything you couldn't explain?"

"Well, yes, but that's completely beside the point—"

"No it isn't, Mrs. Dursley." Ms. Branstone said firmly, reaching for a bag at her side. "It is the point. Your daughter has magic and it's our job to tell you how to handle it."

She handed Mary a pamphlet. On the front there was a picture of one of those sticks, a _wand, _Mary thought with slight nausea. It had some light coming out of the end of it. Above that, an embossed golden title read "Magic and Muggles: What it Means To Have a Magical Child"

Mary opened the pamphlet with shaking hands and began to read, humoring the visitors. Ms. Branstone and Mr. Cauldwell sat quietly until she was done.

When Mary finished, she looked up at them.

"Now I'm not saying I believe any of this," Mary prefaced, "but if Violet _is_ magical, where did she get it from? The pamphlet said it's hereditary, but obviously I'm not…" she trailed off.

"Ah," Ms. Branstone began, reaching into her bag again and pulling out a scroll. "Magic is a recessive gene, one that can lie dormant for generations, then present itself suddenly. That is, if both the parents are carriers. We weren't able to find out where _your_ gene came from—it was probably passed down from the medieval era: that was the period during which the magical community went underground and much of our genealogy was lost in the process—but we are 90% sure that your husband's gene came from his maternal grandparents, who passed it down to both their daughters, with one of them, your mother in-law, being a carrier who passed it to her son. The other carrier, his aunt, became a fully fledged witch, who passed the gene to her son, your cousin by law, a wizard."

"You must be mistaken," Mary said, feeling on solid ground for the first time in this conversation. "My husband doesn't have an aunt or cousin. Petunia—my mother in-law—was an only child, she told me so. And I asked Dudley about cousins and stuff when we we're planning our wedding and he said his Aunt Marge never had kids."

A brief look of concerned confusion passed over Ms. Branstone's face then she sighed with something like resignation. "I can assure you, Mrs. Dursley, that your husband has a cousin. I know him personally: he works at the Ministry of Magic, like Mr. Cauldwell and me, and we attended the same school. Your husband must have wished to keep it secret."

"No, no, no…" Mary said, clinging to this one thing she _knew_ for sure. "There is _no aunt. _There is _no cousin_. And if there was, then Dudley never knew them!"

Mr. Cauldwell sighed too, and started to read from the scroll that Ms. Branstone had handed him. "Lily Evans, Petunia Dursely nee Evan's younger sister, was confirmed as a witch at the age of eleven, when she began attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

These names sounded insane to Mary. It made no sense.

"There, she met a Mr. James Potter," continued Mr. Cauldwell, "who she would eventually marry. Together they had one son, Harry Potter. Soon after Harry's first birthday, however, Lily and James Potter were killed by He-Who-Must-Not," Mr. Cauldwell paused for a second and gathered his strength. "Voldemort," he forced out. Ms. Branstone shuddered slightly. "Young Harry Potter survived the attack. He was then left his only living relatives, Vernon and Petunia Dursley, who raised him alongside their son, Dudley, your husband. They hid his parents' past from him until he was eleven and then were forced to admit to the manner of his parent's death, reveal his magical heritage, and to allow him to attend Hogwarts School, which he did for six years, returning to the Dursley's home only for summer holidays."

Mary didn't believe any of this. It made _no sense_. She'd know if it were true!

"Harry Potter left the Dursley home and Hogwarts when he turned 17, so as to lead the underground resistance during the Second Great Wizarding War. After the war's completion, nine years ago, he finished his schooling and became a Leading Member of the Ministry of Magic. After assisting the establishment of the Department for Muggle to Magical Integration, he transferred to the Aurors Department and now works in the law enforcement field."

Mr. Cauldwell rolled up the scroll and looked at Mary. "He lives outside of London with his wife and two children. They are very happy from what I understand."

Mary felt numb. None of it made _sense_.

No, wait, that wasn't true. Petunia had always been… touchy about her family history and now that she thought about it, when Dudley talked about his childhood there was a "Harry" he would sometimes mention, a character in the background that he would avoid talking about but had always seemed present.

"It's rather interesting, actually," Ms. Branstone said, snapping Mary back to the present. "How many on these recessive genes tend to present in muggleborn witches and wizards," she explained. "Like Violet's eyes."

Mary looked up at her. She'd always wondered about Violet's eyes: no one on either side of the family had such green eyes.

"They are so clearly from her great aunt, who was a muggleborn witch, and the only person I've ever met with eyes like that would be Harry Potter, who is also a wizard. It's almost as if the eye color is attached to the magic gene…"

Mary thought about this. She'd almost forgotten through this crazy conversation why these people where here: to tell her that her baby was different.

"Then again, what do I know!" said Ms. Branstone lightly. "After all, only one of Potter's children has that eye color and they're both wizards, so I could be completely wrong!"

At that moment, Mary heard the door open and her husband shout, "I'm home!" _Finally,_ Mary thought with relief. Someone to tell her she wasn't crazy. She got up to go greet her husband.

There was a thunk-ing from the stairs and suddenly Violet was leaping into Dudley's arms, shrieking "Daddy! Daddy!" at him. Dudley scooped her up and looked at Mary. "What's wrong?" he asked, reading her face. She gestured for him to follow her and she went back into the living room. He followed, looking at the two strangers with apprehension.

"Whose this?" he asked, putting Violet down. She ran to the couch and started to bounce up and down with excitement.

Ms. Branstone and Mr. Cauldwell stood up. Mr. Cauldwell offered his hand to Dudley. "I'm Owen Cauldwell and this is my colleague, Eleanor Branstone." Ms. Branstone nodded politely. "We," continued Mr. Cauldwell, "are from the Ministry of Magic."

A look of frightened recognition crossed Dudley's face and he took a step back, forgetting about Mr. Cauldwell's offered hand. He obviously knew what was happening, which meant…

_It's true,_ thought Mary, feeling the last of her hope vanish. _It's all true. _

"What do you want?" Dudley almost shouted. He was looking between Mr. Cauldwell and Ms. Branstone like a frightened animal. Violet had stopped bouncing up and down and looked frightened as well. Mary went over to comfort her.

Ms. Branstone put up her hands, as if to prove she wasn't armed. "Please, Mr. Dursley," she said, "we know that you have had some… unfortunate encounters with the magical community, but the last one was almost a decade ago and, if you remember, it was magic that saved you in that particular incident."

Dudley still looked frightened. "You still haven't told me why you're here!"

"We are here," said Mr. Cauldwell, obviously becoming frustrated, "because your daughter is a witch!"

Dudley looked stricken. "No," he said, collapsing into a chair, all the wind gone from his sails. "No, that's not possible. _He's_ the one who was… he was the…"

"These things can skip generations," said Ms. Branstone. "It was always a possibility."

"What evidence do you have?" insisted Dudley. "What proof?!"

"We are positive your daughter is a witch, Mr. Dursley." Ms. Branstone said while reaching for her infernal bag again. "But if you aren't sure there is a very simple test."

She withdrew a stone. It was smooth and clear, like polished quartz, and it seemed to glow in her hands. "This," she said, holding up the stone, "is a piece magidium. Like a light bulb conducts electricity, this particular stone will light up in the hands of someone with magic, conducting the magical energy like electricity."

"In the hands of a muggle, however," she said, offering the stone to Mary, "it ceases to shine." Mary took the stone and it did indeed stop glowing.

"If you hand that stone to your child," Ms. Branstone concluded, leaning back and grinning, "you will know if she has magic or not."

Mary went to go give the stone to Violet. Dudley reached out to stop her, fear replacing anger in his eyes, but Mary gave him a look and he backed off. She knelt down next to Violet, who'd slid onto the floor. She held the stone out to her daughter, who looked at it curiously for a second, and then grasped.

Suddenly the stone started to glow with white light that seemed to shine through the cracks like water sparkling in sunlight. Violet shrieked with joy and ran to the cupboard under the stairs. It was her favorite hiding place and she wanted to see if the stone glowed in the dark. Mary sank into the side of the couch. _So it's true then…_

She felt conflicted: two voices were warring for dominance in her mind. One was telling her that this was impossible, a myth, a hoax… anything other than what it appeared to be. The other was telling her that it _could_ be true, it _had _to be… both thought processes seemed to be real, with one thought and it's inverse somehow coexisting. They were both absolutely true and utterly false.

Still reeling, Mary looked over at Dudley, who had his head in his hands. His shoulders were shaking slightly. Mary felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped. She turned to find Ms. Branstone sitting on the sofa, gazing down at her sympathetically.

"I know how hard this must be for you," she said, gently petting Mary's shoulder. "My parents were muggles, too. They didn't find out about me until I was eleven and Hogwarts came to tell them about my abilities. They were so scared and disbelieving. They even tried to keep me from going to school. They wanted to home school me. They hoped I might, I don't know, grow out of it."

She looked a little rueful at the thought, as though it was a ridiculous notion. Mary had been clinging to it as a possibility.

"But they let me go. They loved me and accepted that I would lead a very different life than the one they had planned for me."

At this point Ms. Branstone squeezed Mary's shoulder and knelt down next to her. Her straight, dark hair fell around her face, making her pale eyes look stormy as she stared at Mary.

"But not every child is so lucky," Ms. Branstone said gravely. "Every year, dozens of magical children are beaten, abused, and even killed because of bigoted parents, parents who are afraid of their own children. "

She looked beseechingly at Mary, like she was searching for a promise. "And that's why we're here," she continued. "To ease the transition, give you the information, and assure that there is no reason to be afraid. No reason to hate or resent your child. They love you."

Mary didn't understand. "Why would I hate my daughter?" she asked. "Different or not, she's still mine. What kind of parent would do that?"

Ms. Branstone looked relieved. "You'd be surprised."

Mr. Cauldwell came over with a stack of books he must have pulled from Ms. Branstone's seemingly-bottomless bag. He laid them out on the coffee table in front of Mary and Dudley.

"These are the suggested reading materials for muggle parents," said Mr. Cauldwell, looking worriedly between Mary's shocked expression and Dudley hunched form. He held up each book, explaining its purpose.

"This one details what you can expect to happen as your daughter matures—increases in magical activity, more complicated or bizarre manifestations of power—and how to limit them, by helping her find alternate methods of expression and giving her simple spells to divert pent up energy." He held up another book. "This one is about the history of our culture. It lists terms, locations, and traditions that you should be familiar with and explains how involved you should be in the magical world and in what ways. This one…"

He went on like this for a bit. By the end of his speech, there was a pile of books and pamphlets almost three feet high. Finally, Mr. Cauldwell offered Mary a folder. She took it.

Inside there were a few forms, a packet of procedures, a map, a list of addresses, two pairs of cheap plastic reading glasses, and a card.

"This is our contact information. The forms are for requesting appointments, filing complaints, and accessing archive information. The map is to our offices, which are listed. I'm sorry: we don't have telephones and we only get mail by owl at the moment." He smiled. "We're working on that. The glasses will allow you to see like a magical person. There are certain cloaking spells wizards use to hide buildings from muggles: these glasses filter those spells out. There is also a survey for evaluating our services. We are a new department; we need the feedback." He shook his head, as if embarrassed by the survey.

"The card, by the way, is for our only telephone. It is for calling our genealogist who can help you contact magical relatives: we find it helps ease the shift to have familial support."

He and Ms. Branstone stood. "We're sorry," he said, putting on his hat. "We have to leave. There is another appointment we have to make today."

Mary thought about what they meant by appointment. She pitied the people who'd have to see them next. They had no idea what they were in for.

**A/N: Wow. This chapter is 4.7x longer than the first… (I did the math! Because I like the math…) But it was worth it, no? No, really, tell me if it wasn't worth it, I'd like to know. It was tricky to write Mary's reactions during this chapter: she had so many conflicting emotions it's difficult to know what would dominate the others and present itself. I also feel like Violet should have been more active, but she will be soon, I promise. **

**Next chapter, Mary is going to confront Dudley about his past and possibly use one of the items in the folder (Not saying which! ;] )**

**As always, please feel free to shower me with adoration and roses or stone me and run me out of the village for my poisonous words! Toodles!**

**[EDIT: in initial release, two sentences were transposed, creating a logical gap, and I made a mathematical miscalculation regarding ages. Both issues are now solved]**

**(Disclaimer: Words. Not. Mine… They. Rowling's! *grunts like a neanderthal*)**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Fights and Thoughts

Mary stood up from her seat and did the only thing she could think of: she began cleaning. Cleaning had always been a cathartic activity for Mary. It relieved stress, with its methodic movements, and it gave Mary something to do so she could think—there was a lot of new information to process and it would take a lot of housework to do it. She was about to pick up the books the visitors had left—maybe she'd put them in the study or the bedroom to read—when a hand on her arm pulled her up short.

"Don't." said Dudley in tones of such solemnity that it surprised Mary, and she actually felt afraid for a second.

Then she felt angry. It took over completely and terribly and she knew exactly why.

_This man,_ she thought viciously, shaking. _This man has lied to me. All the time I've known him…_

She looked deep into Dudley's eyes. _Every time…_ He looked angry too. _All the time… _And something else she'd never seen before.

Mary didn't know this man at all. She never had.

She wrenched her arm out of his grip and glared. "Study. Now."

She grabbed a few more of the books and stomped up the stairs. Dudley followed her into their office space and closed the door behind him. Mary dropped the books on the desk with a calamitous crash and stormed over to Dudley—never mind the papers and pens now toppling onto the floor.

"They told me about Harry," she said, her voice cutting like a knife held to his throat. "They told me that you had an aunt and a cousin. Why didn't you tell me?"

"It didn't seem important." Dudley was avoiding her gaze. "I never met my aunt and he… he never seemed important, so—"

"Not important? I'm your wife!" Mary almost shrieked, but Violet was under the stairs and she would have heard a scream. "And this Potter guy. He lived with you for what? Eighteen years?"

"Sixteen," Dudley corrected, mumbling.

"Oh, yes, thank you!" Mary said sarcastically. "That changes everything; my mistake! They said he was… he was like Violet!" She didn't want to say the word. It frightened her.

Dudley was looking at the floor, embarrassment and guilt emanating from him. Then it dawned on Mary.

"You knew." She said. "You knew that Violet was—"

Dudley looked up suddenly, his eyes defensive and frightened. "No I didn't! I couldn't."

"But you thought… Maybe it was possible." It made sense: his uneasiness when she used the word "magic", the way he always changed the subject when she brought up one of those strange incidents. It made sense now.

"The thought… crossed my mind," he admitted. "But I thought it was impossible! I thought I was being ridiculous, that it was only if your parents were that way!"

"How did you know?" Mary asked.

"It reminded me of… him. When we were growing up." Dudley sat heavily in one of the office chairs and stared at the floor. "There were some things that happened before we—I mean, _I" _He sounded almost bitter then, "found out about him."

"What things?"

Dudley raked his fingers through his hair. It looked white in the light of the lone office lamp that illuminated the study. It made all his shadows too severe.

"Things like… his hair growing back too quickly and him suddenly moving from one place to another. Things like that."

"Why didn't you say anything about Violet then?!" Mary felt furious.

"Because I thought I was being paranoid!" Dudley exclaimed, waving his hands about. His hair was standing on end from his messing with it. He looked exhausted. "And… because I didn't like to think about it. I've been… cursed, I guess you would say, when I was eleven and again when I was fourteen. Not by him, by others, and I didn't want to think about Violet doing that. And please don't ask about the curses!" he added urgently, looking embarrassed. "It's all settled now."

Mary crossed her arms.

"Why didn't you even tell me you had a cousin? It's not like you had to tell me about the other stuff; he could have just been your orphaned cousin that lived with you as a kid! It would have been weird, but at least it would have been honest!" Mary was exasperated and a little desperate. She wanted to know _why_ he had lied to her.

"I don't know." Dudley said, a little annoyed. "My parents never talked about him. Aunt Marge asked about him once, but they said he left and that was it. I was seventeen then. My friends, the ones who remembered him from when we were kids, asked after him once or twice, but I said that he got a job over seas and moved out." He looked at her, beseechingly. "Honestly, I've been doing it for so long, at some point I stopped thinking of it as lying. It became true. I wasn't thinking."

Mary was still angry, but she knew this was about as close as she'd get to an apology right now. She sighed, exasperated and tired, and leaned back against the desk, kneading her brow. "How did your parents do it?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Raise a kid they new was different." Mary wanted to know. Maybe she could reach out to them for help. They'd done well enough with Dudley (maybe a tad overly doting, but it's an innocent enough mistake); perhaps they could help with Violet.

"I don't think," Dudley began delicately, "they were very fond of Harry."

This didn't really answer Mary's question, but she let him continue.

"They treated him differently than they treated me and I think they were… afraid of him. When he came back from school, they always locked all of his school stuff—like his books and things—in his cupboard. They forbid him from mailing or calling his friends and they would punish him for doing and saying things he shouldn't. They would take away meals for days at a time, I remember."

Mary was horrified. Petunia and Vernon did _that_?

"One summer," Dudley remembered, "they locked him in his room for making a cake to fall an someone's head. They put a cat flap in the door to his room and put food through it and they barred his window. One night, his friends came and broke him out. I think we were twelve. The next year," Dudley wasn't looking at Mary. If he had been, he'd have seen her face and stopped. "He got into a huge fight with dad and dad threatened to throw out all his stuff. So he just left. I didn't see him until school was over.

"And two summers after that he… he saved my life."

Mary was surprised. This contradicted everything else. It sounded completely out of character for the awful people in these horrid tales.

"I was teasing him while we were walking home from the park. We were fifteen, I think. Suddenly, the sky got all dark, like it was night time and all the street lamps went out. And then it got cold. It had been steaming all day, but it got cold then. Colder than I've ever been. And I felt… Empty, like all the happiness had been sucked out of my life. I couldn't stop thinking about all the horrible things that had happened to me.

"Something grabbed me, then. It was cold and strong and it made me feel even worse. Then Harry said something and waved his stick-thing and this silvery light came out of it and trampled down whatever had got hold of me, chasing it away."

He looked at Mary now and saw her face. Guilt filled his eyes and he looked away.

"I found out later I'd been caught by this monster that feeds on happy memories and, if it can, it will suck out your soul. I could have died that day, but he saved me instead."

Mary had received too much information today. She felt overloaded. What was she supposed to do? She thought about it for a minute, considered everything Dudley had just said, and found that anger, horror, and betrayal were re-surfacing.

"Your parents," she said, voice and fists shaking with rage, "are horrible."

Dudley jumped and glanced at her, looking offended and bewildered. Mary couldn't take it. "What do you mean by that?" he said dumbly

"Jesus Christ, Dudley!" Mary exclaimed. "They could have been charted off by child protective services for what they did to that kid! Locking him up? Starving him?"

Dudley still looked a little confused. Mary felt her eyes burn with tears.

"What if," she asked, her voice shaking. "What if somebody did that to Violet? I just—I don't know what I would—"

Mary broke down then. She was so afraid. She'd been able to keep from crying up until then, but the world felt like it had crumbled beneath her, and the tears were the waters breaking the dam. She felt so alone. It's not like she could tell her parents about Violet. She'd been hoping her in-laws could help her, reassure her. Tell her _what to do_, but now… she wasn't sure if she ever wanted to let them near Violet again.

Mary felt a hand on her head and then she felt herself being pulled into a hug. Dudley was shaking a little too, and his hand was in her hair, trying to stroke it, but just clumsily messing it up.

"Shhh," Dudley said, trying to be reassuring. "It's going to be alright."

Mary didn't believe him. She sobbed a little more and he held her tighter.

"You're not in this alone. I'm here."

Mary found _some_ comfort in this. She wasn't completely alone, but she also didn't feel completely secure. Dudley had obviously never understood how cruel his parents had been. It's not easy to see the pain of others when you're a kid. He didn't understand this any better than Mary did.

She needed help.

Dinner had been a quite affair. Violet spent all dinner with the glowing rock on the table. Branstone and Cauldwell had left it there (Mary didn't know if it had been an accident or done on purpose) and Violet was so smitten with it—Mary couldn't bear to take it away. Only Violet spoke during dinner, trying to attract her parents' attention by showing them the stone and talking in that childish way about the nice people who gave it to her.

After dinner, Mary took Violet up to bed. She sat with Violet, making sure she brushed her teeth properly and brushed her hair. It was nice and easy, sitting in Violets purple and pink bathroom, like an escape from the day.

When Mary went to tuck Violet in, she noticed the stone stuck among the stuffed animals festooning the bed. She went to grab it, to put it away, when Violet snatched it up and held it to her. It glowed in the dark, illuminating her with a bluish light. Violet looked determined. Mary smiled and tucked her in.

She went back downstairs to find it empty. Apparently Dudley had gone up while Mary was dealing with Violet. Mary didn't want to go up. Not right now, so she cleaned.

She started in the kitchen, scrubbing the counters, washing the floor, wiping the tables. Then she worked in the living room, dusting, sweeping, picking up Violet's things and putting them in her toy chest.

It was calming. It gave Mary time to think about questions. Questions like "_What now? What do I do with Violet? Do I tell her? Should I?"_

Mary pulled out the vacuum and started vacuuming the rug. _How would I tell her, anyway? I can't guarantee that she'd understand and what would I do if she went around telling everyone she had magic powers? That she was a witch? What should I __**do**__?_

Mary wiped some sweat from her forehead and looked at the clock: 11:30 pm. This problem was not going to be solved tonight. She put away the vac and climbed the stairs. Her body mimicked her mind—both were heavy, tired, and rubbed raw by abuse. Mary felt defeated. On her way to the bedroom, she noticed that Violet's door was open and went to go close it.

She grabbed the handle and was about to shut the door when she stopped and looked at Violet a little more. It was a picture, her little one snuggled in amongst her blankets and toys, serene and at peace, with the stone clasped against her. Its light seemed to pulsate with Violet's breathing, like it too was asleep. The sleeping expression on Violet's face, innocent and unaware, was highlighted by its haze. _What am I going to do with you?_ Mary thought, leaning against the doorframe. She loved her daughter so much… she would do anything for her. If only she knew _what_.

Mary suddenly had a thought.

She went to the study and began searching through the mess of papers and pamphlets on the floor. She felt success when her hands clasped the folder containing ministries contact information. Kneeling on the rug, she riffled through it until she found what she was looking for: the little, white card with the one phone number on it.

She grabbed the telephone of the desk and began dialing. She remained sprawled on the floor, hair askew, breath shaky as she tried to dial. Mary swore quietly to herself; her hands were shaking and the buttons were too small. It took her a dozen tries to get the number right.

She felt her halting breath disappear completely when it finally rang. She waited a few moments. Maybe no one was there? _Of course no one is there!_ Mary thought wildly. _What type of mental case calls a government office at midnight?_

To her immense surprise and panic, someone actually picked up. "Hello?"

Mary couldn't speak.

"Helloo?"

"Hi," Mary began awkwardly. She didn't know what she's expected—maybe something more magical? But Mary didn't know what that would be. "My name is Mary Dursley? I was given this number today. I was told I could call it if I wanted to contact magical—" the word felt strange in Mary's mouth "—relatives?"

She felt like she was talking to customer service.

"Yes, ma'am, that's what we do. If you want, we can set up a meeting here in the offices, or we can lend you an owl for direct contact."

"Uhm," Mary began. This no longer sounded like customer service. "Did you say 'owl'?"

"Yes, ma'am. That is the method by which witches and wizards send mail. It's like carrier… oh, what where they? Parrots?"

"Pigeons?" suggested Mary.

"That's right," said the voice on the phone. "Carrier pigeons! Just like that, only with owls."

"Right," Mary thought for a second about the pros and cons of sending a letter and requesting an appointment. Despite the owl, she went with sending a letter. "Uhm, how would I get one of these, uh, owls?"

"Oh, we'll send it out tonight with instructions in it's pouch. It should be at your home by morning."

"Oh," said Mary, who was now thinking that this might not have been a good idea after all: Where was she going to put an owl? "Okay. I guess that'll works."

"Right, then we'll set that up for you, ma'am. Name's Mary Dursley, correct? Is there anything else you need?"

"Ah, no." Mary said, caught off guard as she'd been contemplating owl locations: the cupboard? The attic? "Thank you."

"Good night, then," said the disembodied voice.

"Good night," said Mary, who hung up.

Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

The next morning, Mary awoke to a tapping at her bedroom window. She looked up sleepily to see a small tawny owl on her windowsill. It was tapping studiously—one, two, three taps and then a short break, repeat—and eyeing Mary with a look of impatience.

Dudley groaned and rolled over in the bed.

Mary suddenly found herself far more awake. _Crap_, she thought. The clock said it was 6:30. Mary slipped out of bed as quietly as she could, hoping to god that the owl wouldn't hoot. She opened the window as delicately as she could, cringing at the noise.

Once the window was open, she was faced with a new problem: how do you carry an owl? Mary had never touched bird in her life and wasn't really sure how to handle them. She reached for the owl, palms open, in an attempt to grab it with two hands around the body, but the owl shied away and gave a small hoot of protest. Mary shushed it desperately and decided to change her tactics.

Hesitantly, she held her wrist out, offering it as a perch the way she'd seen falconers do on TV. The owl slowly edged back to her, suspiciously, and hopped onto her wrist. It's talons bit into her skin as she pulled the bird back into the house through the window.

Quietly, Mary padded her way around the bed to the door, which barely creaked when she opened it. Mary felt noticeably relieved that she'd finally made it to the hall. Now she had to deal with another problem: what does one _do _with an owl?

She went up the attic and put the owl down on one of the antique chairs her parents had given her. It held out its leg expectantly. Mary saw that there was a little leather cases wrapped around the owl's leg. Not now. Mary thought. She had to wait until Dudley was gone before she could do anything.

Mary made her way back to the master bedroom and climbed into bed for the 15 minutes she'd have to wait until Dudley got up for his shower.

She had been hoping she'd be able to sleep a little more, but her nerves kept her awake. She merely pretended to sleep when Dudley's alarm went off and he got up. Once she heard the water running, Mary jumped from the bed and got dressed as quickly as she could. Usually, it was her pace that determined how quickly Dudley got out of the house in the morning and today she wanted him out fast.

Once she was clothed, Mary dashed downstairs and started making breakfast. Eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee were the usual fodder at the Dursley table. Mary hurried around the kitchen, trying desperately not to burn anything in her rush. It was while she was rescuing the bacon from the frying pan that Mary heard the tapping.

She froze. It was that same one, two, three, pause pattern from earlier. The owl had found the heating ducts in the attic and was now tapping on them so that his demands for attention could be heard throughout the house.

Pulling everything off the stove, Mary dashed up the stairs and into the attic. The owl looked at her curiously, as though confused by her frantic air. They stared at each other for a few moments in a Mexican standoff. Mary made a tactical decision and grabbed the old radio she'd used in college.

She went back to the kitchen, plugged in the radio, and set it loudly to a pop music station. After a few moments, the owl's taps could be heard again, but they simply became background noise for the pop-y tunes blasting throughout the house.

Dudley came downstairs, doing up his tie. "Darling!" he shouted over the noise. "Do you think we could turn the radio down?"

"What was that, dear?" Mary said loudly, feigning deafness.

Dudley, who thankfully seemed cowed by their argument last night, dropped the issue and sat down at the kitchen table. Mary placed the plate of slightly singed breakfast in front of him.

He ate it, trying to hide his distaste at the rubbery eggs, burnt toast, and bacon. Mary took a slight pleasure in this. She didn't want to start a fight with him, but she still hadn't forgiven him for all his lying. While she had decided to let it rest for now (fighting would not get him out of the house), a small revenge gave her satisfaction. Mary thought Dudley might have understood this too, and was continuing to eat as a sign of apology.

While Dudley continued to munch on his shame-breakfast, Mary went to go wake Violet. She knocked gently on the door before opening it. Violet was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes and looking sleepy.

"Morning, honey," Mary said gently. "Time to get up."

"Whysit so loud?" Violet said this slowly, half a moan, still rubbing her face.

"Sorry, sweetie," Mary said. "I'll turn it off after daddy leaves."

"'kaaaaay," Violet started to fall back towards the pillow. Mary caught her, scooped her up, and took her downstairs.

As Mary reached the bottom step, she saw Dudley pulling on his coat and grabbing his bag. Apparently, as well as disguising the owl, the music had the added benefit of driving Dudley out of the house even faster.

He went up to Violet and Mary and kissed each of them on the forehead once before heading to the door. He turned around as he was leaving.

"I'll see you after work! Goodbye, Vi!" he was smiling at his daughter whose eyes where drifting back towards sleep. Dudley gaze lifted to meet Mary's and it gained a wary tone. "Bye, Mary."

The door locked behind him.

**A/N: Thanks for the feedback, people! It really inspires me to keep writing. In fact, for every fav/review/follow I receive I will write 100 words (until it becomes too much :P). **

**I'd like to say, just as a point of interest, that I am intentionally writing Mary as a character antithetical to myself. I don't like kids, I don't like cleaning… I'm trying to challenge myself with a character who I can't completely sympathize with. So if some of her attributes aren't coming out right, let me know. I'm trying to get better at writing characters that are dissimilar to me.**

**Also, regarding chapter length, I'm aiming for around 3,000 words a chapter, as that seems to be about average for a novel. This particular chapter is actually chapter 3 and half of chapter 4 mushed together. **

**Until next time! **

**(Disclaimer: If I was the person who wrote Harry Potter, I wouldn't be wasting my time on this site: I'd be sipping margaritas brought to me on platinum trays by butlers in short-shorts, while the Queen took tequila shots off one of the servants)**

**P.S. This is a really long A/N…. (****not helping)**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Sent and Received

Mary put Violet down and went to the kitchen to turn off the radio. When the switch clicked the house was suddenly full of silence, or almost silence as suburban neighborhoods are never silent—the house was filled with the sounds of the refrigerator, the soft pat-pat of Violet's feet as she walked into the kitchen, and general morning noise—birds' songs, sprinklers, cars on asphalt, and occasional bark of a waking dog.

All that and the darned owl. Just then, Violet climbed into her chair at the kitchen table.

"What do you want for breakfast?" Mary asked.

"Cheerios!" Violet said, finally awake. Mary gave her a look. "Please!" she added.

Mary pulled Violet's Winnie the Pooh bowl out of the cupboard and fetched the Cheerios.

"What's that noise?" asked Violet. Mary nearly spilled cereal all over the floor.

"I don't know, sweetie." Mary's voice shook as she despondently swiped errant o's into the sink. "I'll go upstairs and check, shall I?"

She put the bowl of cereal on the table, splashed some milk on it, then turned and hurried up to the attic. The owl was perched next to the heating duct and it looked up at her as she came in. She grabbed the owl, its naturally large eyes taking on an even more surprised expression, and took it down to her bedroom. She put the owl on the bed and went about removing its delivery.

The pouch on its leg was small and made of thin, red leather—possibly painted buckskin—and appeared to fastened to its talons with two leather ties. The owl hooted a little and presented its leg in a very professional manor. Mary gently undid the top of the case and removed a piece of parchment. She considered reading it right then, but remembered Violet in the kitchen, so she got up and headed for the door instead.

There was another soft hoot. Mary turned to see the owl spreading it's wings and leap off the bed. She gave a small shriek: its wingspan was impressively and disconcertingly large. It glided silently towards the bathroom where it landed on the edge of the sink. It hooted again and tapped the faucet.

Water?

Mary went over and filled the sink with some water. The owl gave a small hoot of thanks and started drinking. Mary sat for a second or two staring. It seemed odd, how intelligent this owl was. She knew that owls were smart, but there was something about it that was overly so. Maybe wizards bred them differently or maybe magic owls were different.

She headed back down the stairs, considerably calmer and fairly confident that the owl would not be bothering her anymore this morning. She got to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea and toast while Violet ate the rest of her cheerios.

When Violet was done she climbed out of her chair and started to race off.

"Dishes," Mary said meaningfully. Violet slunk back and put her bowl and spoon in the washer before turning around and running even faster to her room. Mary watched her go. Violet would be starting school soon; she was almost old enough.

Mary put away her own dishes, dusting crumbs off her jeans, and went to the bedroom where she could read her letter.

She knelt by the bed and glanced into the bathroom through the open door. The owl seemed to have designated the shower curtain rod as its perch of choice. Judging by the state of the toilet role—paper tattered and completely unraveled on the ground—the owl had tried there first. Apparently, that hadn't worked too well.

She returned her attention to the scroll. There was a little chartreuse ribbon around it sealed with gold wax imprinted with a two swirly "M"s intertwined around a wand. She gently broke the seal and removed the ribbon. Unrolling the scroll proved difficult; it had been bound tightly and there appeared to be no way to smooth it out. Why in the world would you send post this way?

She eventually wrestled it open, holding the corners down with heavy objects from her vanity and dresser. She began to read the first page:

_Guide to Magical Postage and Contact of Magical Family for Muggles (non-magical persons)_

_Postage in the magical world is very different than it is in the muggle one. Instead of sending letters through a system that requires sorting and distribution by multitudes of people, witches and wizards send mail directly to each other via owls. Owls will carry mail from one wizard to another, without the need of an address. Only a name on the front of an envelope or simply giving the owl verbal instructions for delivery is required. _

_Owls will not leave on a delivery until they know where to go. Owls are usually nocturnal, but will make deliveries during the day. Owls will hunt for there own food as long as you let them outside. _

_When composing your letter, be sure to introduce yourself and how you are related to this/these magical person(s). Be forthright with your intentions and…_

Mary read on for a little bit, then decided that she knew how to write a letter and that this whole thing was a little condescending. She skimmed the rest and then set about writing her own.

She went to the study and decided to pick up the mess of papers from the other night before starting her letter. Who could write with such clutter?

After an hour or so of picking up papers and books, organizing them by type and name, and finding a place for them in the study, Mary finally resigned herself to the letter that she had admittedly been avoiding.

_Dear Mr. Harry Potter, _she began. Maybe it was too formal? Anything else felt overly familiar. Then again, they were family, weren't they?

_Harry Potter, _she began again, feeling it was appropriately distant with out being too unfamiliar.

_My name is Mary Dursley. I'm married to your cousin, Dudley—though I assume you figured that out from my surname. We recently found out that our daughter, Violet, is—_

Mary paused and thought for a moment.

_Magic. Through this revelation, I found out about your existence, which had been previously been kept form me, and I wish to seek your advice. Right now, at this moment, I feel a little lost. I want to do right by my daughter, though I'm not sure I know exactly what that is. I know that Dudley doesn't have a clue. _

_This is a situation in which I would normally seek the help of my family. However, my parents cannot help and my in-laws are, from what I understand, have poorly handled this type of situation in the past. _

_That is why I'm turning to you. You are family and I want the help that family offers. My husband doesn't know I'm contacting you. I am not sure how much I trust him now, in light of new information. _

_If I could meet you and talk to you, that would be wonderful. I want to understand this situation and I need someone with experience to help me. I know that you probably burnt the bridges to this family a long time ago, but please, help me—for my daughter's sake. _

_Sincerely, Mary Dursley_

Mary sent the letter. Her fingers trembled on the little leather pouch and when she whispered "bring this to Harry Potter" to the owl, her voice trembled and it looked at her with a condescending stare before flying out the window into the horizon.

"Muummy!" Violet yelled from her room. "Look-y!" She had either done something horrible or something she was proud of.

Mary rose and collected herself, busily pushing back her hair and taking deep breaths. It was done for the moment, and now she had to go back to normal life.

It was three days from when she sent the letter, that there was a response. The time that had passed had been fairly normal. Dudley wasn't eager to bring up anything that would cause a fight and Mary, though angry, didn't want to pointlessly bicker and it wasn't like she knew enough to really win any argument they might have.

Because of this uneasy cease-fire, they went on talking at dinner about benign things, watching television with the sound low after Violet went to bed, and having breakfast together in the morning—it was surprisingly easy to pretend that nothing had happened. Dudley still walked on eggshells, but that faded with every interaction. The only thing that brought a glimmer of fear back into his eyes was the stone. Violet would occasionally bring it down from her room and play with in the living room. Dudley would look at it with trepidation and then ask her to put it back upstairs. That was the only departure from normality, though. All was well

Then an owl came to the window. It arrived after breakfast, moments after Dudley had gone out the door—thank the lord for timing—and Mary was able to sneak it into the bedroom without alerting Violet. This owl was different. It was snowy owl, white feathers speckled with black and gray.

As she removed the pouch, her darn hands started shaking again. Her whole body must have been shaking two, because her hair kept on falling in her face while she tried to break the seal and open the letter. She almost tore the whole thing in half.

Mary wasn't sure if she even wanted to read the letter. Over the past few days she'd found herself thinking quite happily that it might have been lost somehow and that it was certainly a shame—oh well, at least she tried—and that this whole business was over and done with.

But the universe was cruel and now Mary was holding a letter in her hands from her magical cousin in law who she wasn't sure she really wanted to know anymore. What if it was hate mail? Maybe it just said, "your family deserves everything it gets now leave my family and me alone". Or what if the letter had gone astray and some stranger had read it and thought she was crazy?

She opened the letter, but did not read it at first. She just stared at the words, refusing to comprehend them, until she found herself reading out of pure habit, the way you'd read a sign you walked by on the street. She was committed then.

_Dear Mary, _

_I would be lying if I said your letter didn't surprise me. You were right when you wrote that I had burned all the bridges to the Dursleys. I left my Aunt and Uncle's home when I was 17, and I never looked back. Dudley had always been a part of that chapter in my life I never wanted to revisit. _

_You were right to contact family, though. Of course I'll help; I have children of my own and I therefore know how important it is to you to do right by your daughter. It would make me a bad parent, if not simply a bad person, if I was deny you help. As a wizard raised in a household that didn't understand magic, it would be cruel to turn my back on somebody who asked for help in not making the same mistakes my Aunt and Uncle did._

_Also, I must be honest, your letter has created a curiosity in my wife and me as to what ever happened to my cousin. I am interested to know what kind of person he ended up being. _

_We would therefore like to invite you and your daughter to tea a week from Saturday. Come by around one. I've written the address below. There is no need to RSVP, just show up. _

_Hoping to see you, _

_Harry Potter_

_P.S. You should have gotten a pair of magic revealing glasses from the ministry. You'll need them to find our street (though you won't need them once you've found it)_

Mary stared for a little longer at the letter. The handwriting was messy and awkward. Address was in Borehamwood: Mary would have to take the car to get there, which meant getting it from Dudley. It wouldn't be that hard to make up a story about shopping for the day.

Mary hadn't looked over the fact that Dudley hadn't been invited and it bothered her a little. If he was so curious why didn't Potter just _invite_ him? But Mary pushed away these feelings—she had somewhere to be next Saturday.

**A/N: Sorry! I know it's short and it's been a while since updating (and the chapter is a little short)—life got in the way—but I have half of another chapter written and I'll update in a few days. It's also mostly dialogue and I'm much better at writing dialogue quickly. I'm keeping to my word promise, by the way! I currently owe you guys 3,306 words (about one chapter). I am not counting words that have yet to be published, nor am I counting author's notes.**

**While writing this chapter, I found myself researching London commuter towns for the Potter residence. I was sorely tempted by one in Essex (I mean, come on? Little Essex Potters!) and I was of course **_**this**_** close to picking Potters Bar, but I thought it lacked subtlety. I ended up picking Borehamwood because it's where **_**movie magic**_** has happened and I am a movie buff (Indiana Jones and Star Wars were both in part filmed there? No where I'd rather live!)**

**(Disclaimer: No matter how many pennies I throw in the well, I am not the person who came up with Harry Potter. That was the beautiful JK Rowling)**


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